


Hope He Hears It

by Caswingsuniverse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 11x11 "into the Mystic", M/M, Purgatory, Song Lyrics, contains spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:56:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5862712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caswingsuniverse/pseuds/Caswingsuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on 11x11 "Into the Mystic"<br/>This is a companion coda for my other work, "Tied to the Whipping Post." This time, I took on Dean's point of view at the end of the episode. I also use lyrics from the song "Into the Mystic" by Van Morrison. </p><p>"“Follow your heart,” Mildred told him. She patted his chest, and he thinks of how void of scars he still is. It’s been years since Castiel pulled him out of hell, but he’d lost decades worth of nicks, scratches, cuts and gashes. Cas had cleaned his skin of every mark, but left every freckle."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope He Hears It

Dean Winchester is a fallen star, dust and sparks that crash onto a familiar mattress. He holds his breath, waiting for the silence and shadows to form her shape. When Amara doesn’t appear, doesn’t stare him down, he lets the trapped air go.

 

Vulnerability never was a thing John Winchester let Dean show, never mind feel. He had to be stone cold, a natural killer. A machine that worked on pure instinct in the heat of a hunt. Being vulnerable meant having a weakness, which meant impending death. And then innocent people die. Dean blinks, pushing those thoughts away in exchange for others.

 

No light shines on him as he lies there, thinking about the entire day. About the banshee, about Mildred’s advice, about Sam’s confession, about his confession to Cas. About Cas.

 

Purgatory wasn’t something he cared to remember. During the day, he ran and ran. It was a chase, tackling every monster that crossed his path. He’d ask where the angel was, demand their answer before neatly decapitating them. At night, he didn’t sleep. He prayed to Castiel. He told him to come back, to try to find him too. He told him stories about his childhood. He sang songs to him. Sang until he couldn’t remember anymore lyrics, until he was repeating the same verses like it was a hymn itself.

_Hark, now hear the sailors cry. Smell the sea and feel the sky. Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic. And when that foghorn blows, I will be coming home. And when the foghorn blows, I want to hear it._

 

Cas must have heard him, must have hummed the words to himself when he sat alone in the dark. He felt Dean’s every prayer, his every emotion. He saw Dean’s soul’s light and heard the steady beat of his heart, and he came home.

 

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years on the road, it’s when somebody is pining for someone else _._ ”

 

Mildred’s words ring in his head, and images of Amara and Cas become a cyclone in his mind. He doesn’t love Amara. He wants her dead. He needs to watch her die to feel clean of the Mark once and for all. But he can’t help but freeze in their connection when she’s near him. It felt like drowning in black, choking on sweetness he can’t place a label on. It made him lost.

 

Cas threw the word attraction into the mix, looked at him with those blue eyes and just said the word he tried to avoid. _Attraction._ When Dean stood near her, when he barred his knife to her, he felt something like that. Like he wanted to be around her, protect her. And that scared him, almost as bad as losing Sam and Cas. But it wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t sexual. Sure, she kissed him, but he pushed her away.

 

He’s attracted to her, drawn to her by a strange gravitational pull. But he didn’t _want_ her. He wasn’t _pining_ for her. No, he wanted someone else. Left the other side of his bed open for that person.

 

“Follow your heart,” Mildred told him. She patted his chest, and he thinks of how void of scars he still is. It’s been years since Castiel pulled him out of hell, but he’d lost decades worth of nicks, scratches, cuts and gashes. Cas had cleaned his skin of every mark, but left every freckle. Dean sometimes found the angel whispering numbers to himself, counting the dusting on his cheeks. Dean’s chest feels tight at the thought.

 

Dean sits up, stares at the floor. Castiel. When Sam isn’t there, the angel is the only other person he thinks about. The other person he’d go to hell for. The person he searched Purgatory for. His eyes water at the memory, and he holds his head.

 

Something is wrong with his angel. He can feel it in his gut. Sam brushed it off, saying that Castiel is always off. But he doesn’t _know_ Cas like Dean does.

 

Dean thinks back on their conversation earlier that day, at how stiff Cas seemed. Not the normal “I’m an angel of the lord” stiffness, but a hesitant stiffness Dean hasn’t seen in Cas since he first saw him after kicking him out of the bunker. His eyes were soft, a warm gaze Dean could wrap himself in. And he touched his shoulder, like he always did, placing his hand over the handprint he’d left on the hunter all those years ago. The only scar on his body when he crawled out of his coffin.

 

Castiel touched his shoulder. He touched his _shoulder._ He touched the opposite shoulder. The wrong shoulder. Dean runs his fingers through his hair. Cas always touched the handprint, reminded him of that connection between them. Reminded him that he’s worth saving. Today, he didn’t do that. And he told the hunter that his “attraction” to Amara “could be a good thing.” He suggested Dean use himself as bait, put himself right in the hands of the Darkness, where he has no control.

 

His Castiel wouldn’t do that. Hadn’t done that since he asked Dean to torture Alastair. And even then, he whispered the words like an apology. “For what it’s worth, I would give anything not to have you do this.”

 

Dean stares into the darkness around him, feels his body slump while his muscles tense. It’s quiet except for the soft creaks of the bunker settling, noises similar to trees rustling and twigs snapping. He thinks of Purgatory again, of his nights alone in the forest when the moonlight shone on him. He calls Castiel’s name in his mind, offers a song in prayer, hopes his angel is still there.

_When that fog horn blows, you know I will be coming home. And when that fog horn whistle blows, I got to hear it. I don’t have to fear it and I want to rock your gypsy soul. Just like way back in the days of old. And together we will flow into the mystic. Come on, girl._

_Too late to stop now._

 


End file.
